The Academic Rival's Fake Fiancée

POV SYLVIE

Twelve dollars and forty-two cents.

That’s the grand total of my so‑called freedom as I stand in front of the mahogany doors of the Dean’s office. Three years of chasing a 4.0, living on caffeine and spite, and it all comes down to a pathetic digital balance that couldn’t even get me a halfway decent steak dinner.

Inside, the office smells like old paper and the kind of overpriced cologne that makes my sinuses itch. Dean Higgins doesn’t look at me. He stares at his computer screen with an expression lodged somewhere between pity and disappointment, like he’s grading a failing exam.

“The board’s decision is final, Sylvie,” he says, and I can practically hear my future shattering like cheap glass on a tile floor. “The ‘moral turpitude’ clause in your scholarship contract is very specific. And these… images… they don’t exactly scream ‘Academic Excellence’.”

“They’re fake, Dean. Someone slapped my face on a body that clearly spends more time at the gym than I do.” I fight to keep my voice steady, but there’s a tremor there I can’t quite strangle. “I was in the library. I checked out three books on constitutional law at the exact time that photo was allegedly taken. Check the logs.”

Higgins finally looks up and sighs, the long, tired kind adults reserve for teenagers and people who are about to ruin their lives. “In the age of social media, perception is reality. Astoria University is a brand, Sylvie. We can’t have our top scholarship student linked to… this. The donors are already calling. The Cavill family is particularly displeased.”

The Cavills. Of course. The family that basically owns the dirt this place is built on.

“I have nowhere to go,” I whisper, the words scraping out of me like they’ve been dragged over gravel. “My mom thinks I’m going to be a lawyer. If I lose this, I’m going back to a town where the only career option is the local tire shop.”

“I’m sorry, Miss Belrose. You have forty‑eight hours to clear your dorm.”

I walk out of that office feeling like a ghost. The hallway is bright—too bright—and the sound of distant laughter feels like it’s happening in another universe entirely. I grip the straps of my backpack so hard my knuckles go white. It’s a fraying black Jansport I’ve had since high school, heavy with textbooks I probably won’t even get to finish.

I’m halfway to the South Quad when I see the one person I absolutely cannot deal with right now.

Nathaniel Cavill.

He’s leaning against a stone pillar like he just stepped off the glossy page of a magazine and straight into my personal nightmare. Charcoal suit tailored to sin, phone in hand, wearing that bored, I‑own‑the‑world expression that makes me want to scream.

I try to keep my head down, to be nothing more than a blur of brown hair and panic, but the universe hates me.

“Leaving so soon, Belrose?”

His voice is smooth and low, threaded with that familiar edge of superiority. I should keep walking. I should pretend I didn’t hear him. Instead, my pride digs in its heels.

“Don’t you have a kingdom to run or a kitten to kick, Nathaniel?” I snap, turning to face him.

He slips his phone into his pocket and pushes off the pillar. He’s tall enough that I have to tilt my chin to meet his eyes—something I hate, because his are a cold, storm‑grey that makes me feel like I forgot my coat.

“I heard the news,” he says, stepping into my personal space. He smells like sandalwood and money. “The board is cutting you loose. Quite a scandal for the girl who never missed a deadline.”

“Go to hell. Seriously. If you’re here to gloat, do it quickly so I can go back to figuring out which bridge I’m going to sleep under.”

Nathaniel doesn’t smirk. For once, he actually looks… irritated. “I’m not gloating. Believe it or not, your little pornographic PR disaster is actually a problem for me too.”

I blink. “For you? Why? Did the fake photos ruin the aesthetic of the honors lounge?”

“My grandfather,” Nathaniel says, jaw tightening, “is the one who funds your specific grant. He also happens to hold the keys to my trust fund. He’s obsessed with the ‘Cavill legacy’. He thinks I’m a liability—too much partying, too many headlines with European models. This morning he informed me that unless I show some ‘maturity’ and ‘stability’, he’s donating my entire inheritance to a cat sanctuary in Switzerland.”

“Good for the cats,” I mutter, trying to shoulder past him.

His hand closes around my arm. The grip isn’t painful, but it’s firm enough to stop me. His skin is warm, and for a second my brain just… short‑circuits.

“I need a fiancée, Sylvie.”

I actually choke on my own breath. “A what?”

“A fiancée,” he repeats, like we’re discussing something as normal as a group project. “Someone respectable. Someone smart. Someone the board—and my grandfather—already respects. Someone who can stand next to me at the Founders’ Gala and make me look like a man who has his life together.”

I stare at him, waiting for the punchline. For a camera crew. For his friends to leap out from behind a hedge yelling, Gotcha. “You’ve finally lost it. The ego finally crushed your brain.”

“Think about the math,” he says, his voice dropping to a low, concentrated murmur. “If you’re engaged to me, the board can’t touch you. My family’s legal team will have those photos scrubbed and labeled as ‘a malicious attack on a Cavill family member’. You keep your scholarship. You keep your dorm. You get your degree.”

“And what do you get?”

“I get my fund,” he says simply. “And I get my grandfather off my back for six months.”

I really look at him then. He’s not joking. Under the expensive suit and the stupidly perfect hair, he looks… cornered. Desperate, in a billionaire‑with‑everything kind of way.

“I hate you,” I remind him. “I’ve spent three years making sure you never beat me in a single exam. I hate the way you talk, I hate your suits, and I especially hate your face.”

Nathaniel finally smirks, that slow, dangerous curve of his mouth that makes half the campus lose brain cells. “That’s the best part, Belrose. We don’t have to pretend to like each other when the doors are closed. We just have to make sure the rest of the world thinks I’m obsessed with you.”

“Six months?” I ask, heart thudding so hard it’s a drumline in my chest.

“Six months. We do the tours, we share the hotel rooms—strictly for appearances—and we survive the gala. Then we ‘break up’ amicably, you go off to be a big‑shot lawyer, and I go back to being a disappointment.”

My gaze drops to his hand still resting on my arm. I think about the twelve dollars in my account. I think about my mom’s face when she talks about “my future” like it’s already guaranteed.

“Do I have to wear a ring?” I ask.

“The biggest one I can find,” he replies.

I take a deep breath, his cologne filling my lungs. It feels like standing on the edge of a cliff and choosing to jump anyway, praying the water below is deep enough.

“Fine,” I say, barely above a whisper. “But if you ever try to touch me when there aren’t cameras around, I’ll take that big ring and shove it up your nose.”

Nathaniel laughs, and for a split second he doesn’t look like a rival at all. He looks like a future co‑conspirator.

“Deal, fiancée,” he says.